I Am A Slug
by Meri Pie
Summary: 'I can't imagine WHY you want to read my diary. It's nothing very... ah. You want to mock and ridicule me because I have fallen in love. Well, go ahead. If you want to receive full evidence of my insanity then this is the document for you. Do I care? Not
1. Default Chapter

I am in love. 

It always happens to those who don't want it. I know I don't. She doesn't either. She hates me.

That's why it hurts so much. She hates me and she always will. It's a cold feeling. I'm not suicidal, and it doesn't affect me in any way, but I don't like it. 

When I first met her, I was a shit, basically. I won't say I was covering up my feelings, because I wasn't. I was letting them out full flow, but they were against Potter, not her. I jeered and laughed and pointed. But there was no real desire to hurt her, I was trying to hurt him. I felt nothing for her. 

But she became one of the snorting, short-trousered Scooby Gang, and I started to make fun of her for her. I mean, I won't defend myself, but she was a scrawny little thing, and fairly plain. Who am I to say whether or not she still is? I'm in love with her, for God's sake.

I watched them all, trying to trip them up, to be honest. Potter… he was a prime target. He and his pals were the saddest bunch… but not her. As I watched her, at first trying to get to him, I began to like the way she did things. I admired her personality. It made me retch, certainly, but deep down I suppose I wanted to be like that myself. All generous and caring, and fluffy bunnies, flowers, you know the sort of thing. 

She writes in lilac ink, and it's (gross) sort of endearing. Those little bobbles she wears in her hair, fluffy, for the most part. Now we're back to the bunny aspect again. She looks so (sickening) sweet in her uniform. The Miss Kitty T-shirts she wears over the weekends make me (want to throw up) go weak at the knees. Essentially, I love her, but she makes me feel utterly ill.

I have dreams about roasting them all over a bonfire (nice and crispy, just how I like them), but I also have dreams about kissing her. The rest of them can roast for as long as they want, and we can toast marshmallows (or eyeballs, depending on your gore preference) romantically. It's a delightful picture, Potter howling and screaming as I simper with his little girlfriend, licking chocolate off her stomach. (I do like chocolate)

Sorry, I have to stop for a second. I need to send Crabbe or Goyle to get some chocolate. I have a craving. 

Ugh. Having looked that over again I realise it sounds like I'm craving Crabbe or Goyle _and_ chocolate. Not so, I promise you. Heterosexuality is exciting enough for me. Ugh.

Ah, that's better. Now, back to my monologue. 

The fact that… sorry, dramatic pause for my little shudder… that ugly little weed Potter is closer to her than I am makes me so furious. I struggle daily for her to like me, maybe just to look at me without scowling, and she's been in love with him since first year. It all comes so easily to Potter. 

Fine, fine. I know he lost his parents, tortured upbringing, blah blah blah, but who are we talking about here? Me or him?

He's good without trying to be. His father doesn't hunt him with an air-rifle over the summer holidays. Admittedly that doesn't _really_ count, as his father's dead. He's always been loved. He always does the right thing, and he always wins. I _do_ try. So I bought my way onto the team. I'm still good at it. Father said he'd get out the Sniper rifle if I didn't get on the team by the end of the term. Next time Potter says something bad about me, maybe I'll show him that lovely deep cleft in my arm where the bullet skinned me last year.

Back to my love. 

I have no plans as such. I don't know what I could do to get her to notice me. Well, I'm going to bed now. I'll have thought of something by tomorrow evening when I write next. So farewell, for now. I go to the land plagued by nightmares of Goyle's stomach.

~*~

I have returned! 

Here you go. Juicy juicy. 

I sent her an anonymous owl! I know, I know. The idea was crap, but my heart was in the right place. (Ugh.)

I told her how important she is to me, and asked her to meet me up the astronomy tower tonight at midnight. She'll probably scream and jump off when she sees me.

Oh well. At least it'll rid me of the problem I'm faced with right now.

I'll be all hooded and mysterious, then grab hold of her and kiss her before she knows it's me, then _I'll _jump off. How's that for a sneaky plan? 

I know you're an inanimate object, oh diary mine, but what do you think I should do? Will that be okay? Or should I just do what comes naturally? (Ugh.) I'll go up there, and tell her exactly how I feel, deep down inside. Then I'll throw up all over her robes and ruin the moment completely. Alright. I've decided. I'll go up there, and see what happens! 

Told you I was Master-Plan Guy.

Oh well, half-eleven. See you later.

~*~

Bollocks. Bloody fucking stinking crappy bollocks.

It went totally wrong from the off.

I went up there, and she was there waiting. When she heard me, she turned around and smiled. She asked if I was there to meet her, and I said no. 

NO! Why the bloody hell did I say no?

I told her I was representing someone. Then she asked who. I told her it was Potter. She asked who I was. I told her. Her face hardened immediately, and she went all tight-lipped. She asked me why Potter had got me to talk to her. I said I had no idea. Then I had to make up some crappy message filled with nasty horrible shit, and get out as quickly as possible.

Okay, okay. You don't have to tell me how thick I am. I already told myself.

Great thing about early February, is Valentine's. the worst thing about early February, however, is also Valentine's. I can't count the number of girls (and, frighteningly, boys) who send me cards on that terrible day. But now I will send one too. What day is it? 

What?! How the hell do you expect _me_ to know? I'm evil!

I'll compose some lovely poem for her. Yes, that'll work. Or I could do what my clinically insane father did while he was courting my mother. She complained about the fact that he hadn't sent her a Valentine. He asked her what one of those was. She told him it was usually red, gold, and expensive, with a heart. He went out and killed a Muggle, then gave its heart to her on a solid gold plate.

That's the thing (the only thing) I love about my father. His delightful sense of humour. And the lack of it. _That_ wasn't a joke. Well, it was red, expensive, and with a heart. It _was_ a heart. How much heartier can you get?

No. Maybe not. I'll send her a bunch of roses, a nice card, and a box of chocolate. I may have to siphon off the top layer of chocolates, though. I do like chocolate. Not Goyle, though. Or Crabbe. Ugh.

Yeah, anyway. Tired and stupid. I need sleep. I don't need beauty sleep. If I get any more of that, I'll be unbearable. (No pun about my current state of unbearableness intended)

~*~

Ah. At least that's over and done with. I sent her a dozen roses, a box of heart-shaped chocolates (minus a couple, but she'll never know), and a nice card with a poem in it. I think it went:

__

You are pretty

You are sweet

I think you are

Good enough to eat

Just like the chocolates.

I think I'm very talented, don't you?

I know. I know it sucks. I wasn't trying (no, seriously). I wanted it to seem like some illiterate like Potter wrote it. I watched her open it at the breakfast table. She showed it to all of them, and hugged the letter to herself. She smelled the roses, and ate some choccies. Then she stuck a rose through her ponytail, and looked absolutely lovely. I went past her, Crabbe and Goyle staggering behind me with my love letters. She glared at me, as usual, and I shared a private joke with myself. I think it's hilarious that she's happy _I _like her. 

You see. I don't take myself too seriously. I can laugh at myself just as easily as I can laugh at Potter. I think it's desperately funny that I'm obsessed with her. Do forgive me if I upset my ink bottle while I write. Yesterday I was laughing so hard I slipped off my chair. Then I laughed at myself for that, too.

What was that saying? _Laugh, and the world laughs with you. Cry, and you cry alone_?

Bollocks.

__

Laugh, and the world laughs AT you. Cry, and the world laughs harder. (my motto, actually)

Am I abnormal to think that _I_ am the saddest case, and then laugh at myself for being such a sad arsed freak? Well, that might be okay, it's just that, while I'm laughing, I feel superior to myself.

Maybe that's the key to it. Actually, I am a slug, but if I laugh at the butterflies, then I am making them just as much slugs as I am, and because I have been a slug for so long, I am better. Damn. I should have saved that as my fabulous deathbed statement. Although, it could be a little long. It wouldn't be too great if I choked off at 'I am a slug', would it? I can see it all now. My friends (or servants, or hangers on, or followers) are gathered around me in a white room. I'm all crusty, and bald. I clear my wrinkly throat. They all fall silent to hear the wise Guru's final words.

'Actually, I am a slug.'

No. I'll think of something much shorter than that. How about 'Chocolate is good for the heart… aaargh! I think I'm having a heart attack! Pass me those chocolates, will you?'

Maybe not. What about 'Nurse Dale has a lovely bottom.' At least then I'll be going down happy. And very wise.

She _really_ hates me. 

Her bag split in the corridor today. Having had good manners drummed into me by my father, I bent down to help her pick them up. She moved all her books out of my reach and continued to pack them up. Rather hurt, I went off. Then I doubled back to eavesdrop.

'Why did he do that?' she asked. she sounded really puzzled. I was so betrayed. Why does everyone think the worst of me? Come on. I'm batting my eyelids here. Why?

__

I weren't droppin' no eaves, sir! Honest!

Okay, now. My personality causes me to want to plot revenge, and I shall. But my fluffy bunny wants me to try and make her see that I'm not so bad really. I think I'll play more tricks on her.

~*~

Tee hee hee! What a jolly jest this is! I sent her a solid gold bracelet with her name engraved on it. She opened it at the dinner table again, and put it on straight away. She showed it to everyone. I forced a house elf that used to work for us to put notes on her pillow. I'm going to make him put flower petals all over her bed while she sleeps. This is so fun!

~*~

Oh, those petals were great. She came downstairs clutching my note, with petals in her hair, and told everyone about it. She thinks it's someone nice! That's the second best bit. The _best_ bit is still that she hates me, but she's in love with me. I am a great lover of irony.

I need to know who she thinks it is to exploit the poor girl even further.

What?! She deserves it for making me fall in love with her in the first place.

What do you mean, that's not her fault?! Of course it's her fault.

I know it may seem like I don't love her at all, playing all these terrible (terribly funny, more like) tricks on her, but I do. I'm just a bit of a schizo. The difference is, I _know _I have two personalities, and that I'm a social retard, and I think it's funny.

Right, now I know you didn't believe me about my poetic prowess, so I've decided to prove it to you. I'm a little scrambled right now, so this isn't my best attempt.

__

Her eyes are the colour of forget-me-nots

(forget-me-nots that got shat all over by a dog with diarrhoea, but forget-me-nots, nonetheless)

__

Her lips are the precise shade of blood clots

(mmm, kissy kissy)

__

Her skin is as soft as a baby's arse

(Johnson's baby ®)

__

Her… spit is as clear as a chunk of glass

(I warned you. I'm fishing for rhymes, here)

__

I want to hold her in my arms

(Ugh, I got a rather unpleasant trace of WESTLIFE in there. I'm severely disappointed in myself)

__

And enjoy all of her womanly charms

(It's only dirty if you're sick minded)

__

Her hair is like wine

(red, not white. I don't go for blondes. Makes me think of mum. Ugh. Sorry Pansy, Crabbe. It's not you, it's me)

__

I wish she was mine

(Having already used the WESTLIFE comment, I have no smart-arsed remarks for this one)

__

But she wants me dead

Boom-boom.

What do you think? Come on, this is only a draft. Don't judge me on this. I'll come up with something really good for tomorrow. Any way, I have to go to the kitchens and get them to make her a special breakfast. All lovely and… pink. See you.

~*~

That was totally priceless. I don't know how long I can keep this up for, but hell, it's fun while it's lasting! She bursts into tears every time I do something now. I've sent her another message asking to meet me, but I'm going to send a first year to pass on what I want to say. I'll make sure he doesn't say my name. I think there's some kind of dark curse that means he'll be torn apart by a black cloud with trolls in it if he says more than I want him to. I'll just go and look it up. 

Ah, here it is. The Mangle Curse. An old favourite of my father's. I've employed an unimportant first-year to have it put on them and take the message to her in the charms classroom at midnight. I'll just go and perform it, then give him my note, and come back.

All done. He's left. I can't wait to hear this!

~*~

I'm in quite a bit of trouble. They don't know it was me who cursed the poor boy, but they're using Veritaserum to find out who was responsible for him being torn to pieces. It's a murder enquiry, but actually it was suicide. I told him what it did.

'Now, don't say my name, or you get mangled. That's why it's called the mangle curse. Very messy and unpleasant.'

Maybe he didn't understand 'mangle'. That would be a fatal error, considering the nature of the curse. At least he paid most dearly for his torturous mistake in TELLING HER THAT IT WAS ME!!! Bastard.

So now she knows. My little game is up. She sent me an owl asking to come and see her in the hospital wing, where she's being treated for severe shock. I have to go up there tonight. I can't wait to see her of course. I love her so much, but unless she's evil and barbaric, I _don't_ quite think she'll take an exploding first-year as romantic. Well, you never know. I would.

~*~

I guess this counts as tomorrow. It's fine to put in the tomorrow slot, right? I'm disgustingly happy, right now. I suppose you want to know why? I could send you packing, if I so wished. Oh well, in this sickeningly cheery mood, I may as well tell you.

I went up there to see her, broke into the hospital wing, and sat by her bed. She looked perfectly fine, and smiled when she saw me. That was when I realised they'd memory-charmed the explosion right out of her head, and she could only remember up to being told it was me.

She sat up and held one of my hands. I perched on the end of her bed, like you do with a sick person. She thanked me for all the things I had sent her, and written her. (I am so glad I didn't get a chance to send her the most recent poem) she said that it made her really happy whenever she got something, and she had been compiling a list of who it could have been, asking questions, then ticking people off. She said I had never been on it in the first place.

Then she started telling me how attractive I was, and how she'd always been really upset when I was mean to her, because she fancied me. That made me very happy. Being a real Action-Guy, at that point I grabbed hold of her and snogged her senseless. 

Now I'm covered with lipstick, dating her, and grinning like a madman. Uh oh. Mirror has just revealed that in fact, I have lipstick on my teeth, and my tongue. Miss! It's all resolved, but completely secret. I being a Slytherin and she being a Gryffindor, it would be hard to walk around arm in arm.

Well father, you had fears of my being homosexual, and thus incapable of producing an heir. I'm not. (not suggesting in any way that I've tested my heir-producing systems) You may however be just as disappointed in my choice of girlfriend. Tell you what. I don't care. Just to prove how little I care:

**__**

I'm dating Ginny Weasley!!!

So you can go boil your head, and fuck your hunting dogs, for all I care.


	2. Diary Of A Slug

DIARY OF A SLUG  


-----

Welcome once more to the cesspool of moral filth that is my diary.

I can't believe you're back for more. What are you? Masochists? Oh well. Each to his own.

Things are going well, I suppose. My father is still as mad as ever, so that little sunlit spot in my life remains. Ginny is… wacky. I'm trying not to be mean. I love her to bits and itty pieces, but she's odd. Yes, yes. How jolly witty you are to say that never-tiring old saw, 'She'd have to be if she's with you!' 

My, my. I think we missed out a comic genius when we checked through you lot on entry. And an excellent point-outer of obvious stuff. Goodness me, I'm already slagging you all off, and I've barely got to know you. 

Like hell I don't.

Anyway, for those fluff-lovers, here is a little poem of me and Ginny.

__

Do you love me?

Yes you do.

Strange that I didn't

Have a clue

I must be thick

(you're telling me)

Ginny, get out of my diary. 

__

What would you

Rather I'd be?

(charming, dashing,

handsome, too)

Am I just not 

Good enough for you?

Of course you are, honey. Now stop showing off. 

GOODBYE, Ginny.

Good, she's gone. I won't bother continuing. Due to the lovely whoops and catcalls of amusement at my lack of talent that I received when one of my poems was found, I have decided to stop completely. I'm thinking of going into art instead. Yes, I could do sketches of people, then burn them all, stick my thumb in a wad of sticky-tack and call it art. Yes, I think I'll do that. Let me have a look around.

Okay, I couldn't find any sticky-tack, but I've got staples. Okay then. I'll stick my thumb into a staple and see what it looks like.

Oooh. Splatter painting! 

I think I'll go to the hospital now. My thumb has gone a funny colour.

-----

Madame Pomfrey screamed loudly when I turned up at her door with a manic grin on my face and squirted blood in her eye from my thumb. She refused to heal me for scaring her, so I sat outside patiently, aiming blood squirts at a wall. The fun was all spoilt when that party-pooper Delirium came and took me away. I collapsed. How bloody embarrassing. The only other situation in which I have collapsed has been when I've had a clove attack. 

I'm violently allergic to cloves. You know, those funny little spiky things that you stick in oranges at Christmas? Last time, I had to go to wizards' casualty ward. I was swooning and drooling, and all these fit witches in tiny white dresses saw me. Blast. Why me?

Well, I was discovered, sitting in a pool of my own blood. They took me in and patched me up. I showed Ginny my splatter painting. She screamed out loud, and because I was still delirious, I thought she liked it. Then I made the traitorous mistake of saying it needed another colour, and asking her if I could use her blood. When she asked why, I said 'Isn't lower class blood a sort of inferior colour?'

She fled the room crying. Bugger.

I still don't see what's wrong with the statement. I've never seen lower class blood. My father didn't want to distress me beyond repair, so he's only ever slaughtered rich people in my presence. You see? He is a good father. 

I have to go and chase my girlfriend right now. See you tomorrow.

-----

She's a leeettle bit mad with me. Apparently, there was lots wrong with the statement, mostly being the suggestion of her being lower class. I told her about my father, and she looked at me strangely. I don't get it. I thought it was really generous of father. Oh well. Shows how much I know.

(damn sight more than you, I'll wager.)

I got a detention from Filch today. I have to help the house elves out in the kitchen gardens and stuff. I don't get why. I did nothing wrong. I told him that he was looking fatter than usual. That's all. Oh well. Time to go.

-----

Those house elves are slave drivers! 

One bloody chicken bit me while I tried to take its eggs. But I showed him. I found it later on, once they'd roasted it. I pulled its leg off and bit it.

__

How did you like it?

Yes, that made me feel a lot better. Ginny appears to be having that time of the month thing, and she's always mad with me. It brings me back to a little while ago, when I lived to piss her off.

__

Those were the good old days.

I kind of want it back, in a way. It was a lot more fun than living to please her. I do the good thing. I send her roses every week, and a present every month. I send her little notes all the time. I've given up on the secrecy thing, and I walk her to class. I carry her bags, and whenever she says she's tired, I carry her. I take her out to Hogsmeade every now and again. Our two or three month relationship has failed to break me. I'm still perfect. What am I doing wrong? 

Maybe she just doesn't like me any more. But the trouble is, I live for her. Without her, I'd have nothing to do. There'd be nothing to write about, no one to draw, no poems to write. Isn't that what living for someone is? When you know that, were they gone, you'd spend your whole time lying on your back with your head dangling off the side of the bed. That's what I know. If I didn't have her, there'd be no me. 

I bet I'm surprising you, being like this. Well, I can be melancholy guy. I'm in the mood now. Stop stopping me.

__

Uh! You threw off my groove!

I'm sorry, but you've thrown off the sex-god's groove.

I don't know about her, but I think we've got something special here. She's more to me than she ever would have been if it was love at first sight. You don't value something unless you have to fight for it. If everything comes easily, you don't respect it. I respect her, (because it takes ages to get her to come. KIDDING. She's quite responsive, actually. JOKE.) and I know that I have to work to keep her as well. Potter is ever lingering. He hangs around us, pouting sullenly whenever we're together. It's sick.

I'm going to see if boy-who-lived blood is a pretty colour. Wish me luck.

-----

Well, the answer is, yes. I got some of it on my teeth when they cut his fist. It's a lovely shade of ouch. Don't worry. My teeth are all straightened up now. It didn't hurt too much. Besides, he was the one lying on the floor at the end. That means I won, right? If I'm still standing, it means I'm better than him. good. So I should be.

It was surprisingly easy to find the Potty. He was waiting outside my room. He wanted to punch me. I punched him first. I _really_ want to give you a blow-by-blow account of the fight, but I forgot it. All I remember is him punching me in the mouth, then clutching his fist. I hooked his legs, and kicked him in the stomach while he lay on the floor. Then I ran for it.

What do you mean by honour, exactly? What's so bad about kicking someone in the belly when they're down? Isn't that the best place to have an enemy? Right where he can't hurt you. Oh well. Like I said, I'm a cesspool of moral filth. You are obviously righteous, pious, solicitous and downright irritating. I don't respect that a tiny bit. It's far more fun to be a bad boy. I read about this game boys used to play in Victorian times when they would smear sticks in cesspools then wipe them on doorknobs. Pooh sticks. Sounds like fun. Racing sticks down a river with a cuddly bear called Edward, however, that is NOT me. 

Actually, that's quite a good definition. I'm the pooh sticks involving real shit. YOU are the pooh sticks involving rivers, and teddies. We're all still pooh sticks though.

I get the distinct feeling that the missus will be a little put out about my smashing Potter's glasses and making him throw up, and breaking his nose… but it's all fixed now. Besides, he broke mine! I had snot and blood all over my face. That was kind of gross. Potter, however, had snot, blood, sweat and spit on his. That's because I spat on him when I ran off. 

Yes, Ginny could be a tiny bit furious. 

-----

That rat told on me!

(I used the term 'rat' because that's the only thing I've never been insultingly referred to as. I promise. I've even been called a piece of toast. Rodents, yes. Rats, no.)

Ginny dumped me. Well, not 'dumped' exactly. We're taking a breather, cos she's getting homicidal impulses. She just can't hack the pace. Poor kid. You gotta have balls of steel to handle the Draco-meister. I recognise that she's hardly likely to have balls at all, but that's not the point. Can't you messed up weirdoes tell the difference between a metaphor and a literal reference? Idiots.

Well, I'm a little starved for air, if it's a breather we need. Yes, I'm getting a little tired of looking after her all the time. It's too much work for one guy to take. Well, in that case, she can breathe till she hyper-ventilates. I don't care. Nobody 'takes a breather' from me.

-----

This is never going to work out my way, is it?

As that weird Muggle with the funny hair and the earring back in the Dark Ages said, _these violent pleasures have violent endings,_ or something along those Shakespeare-ish lines, anyways. Hey, I've got some more intelligent things to say on the theme of love-lost! Don't go!

I've got Latin, for the _really _intelligent (like me)

__

Nunc scio quid sit amor. 

Whaddaya mean, you don't understand?! Okay, fine. It means: At last I know what love is really like. I think. 

__

I expect that woman will be the last thing civilised by man. That's not mine, either. Unfortunate, but I can avoid the embarrassment by NOT TELLING YOU WHO IT WAS!!! Naturally, at least one person will know, and that swot can take me aside at the end and humiliate me privately. Agreed? Good.

I think… wait for it… it's POEM TIME!!!

Okay, let's drum up some inspiration. Okay! Got one.

__

My love is of a birth as rare

As 'tis, for object, strange and high

It was begotten by despair

Upon impossibility

Oh wait, I've heard that somewhere. I don't think I wrote it. Damn. It was quite good, too. If you know who that was, tell me. I can't remember.

Oh, bugger. I still love her. Why did my pride make me shout at her and spoil it all? No, wait. Don't answer that. I know the answer. Okay, why can't she understand me? Why does she still have to be in love with Potter? Well, in that case, she doesn't deserve me. I love her with every molecule in my body, and I only get half of her. Why, when I have given her everything I have, does she still put me at second best? 

Don't talk to me. I don't want to hear it.

-----

__

Ira furor brevis est, but I'm okay now. 

It's been quite a few days. I still see her face in every window I come close to, but it'll pass. I won't sit here and whine about my predicament, because it's entirely my own fault. I hurt her. I don't know how, but I deserved to get dumped. I shouldn't have shouted at her, because I was at fault. 

I'm hollow. I can't even be arrogant. 

I gave her all that made me who I was, in essence, my soul. What more can you give someone? I only wanted her to be happy, and I suppose I wanted to be happy, too. When she smiled I felt the sun rise in my chest, and my heart flipped over whenever she laughed. But I suppose I don't deserve this from her. She was too good to be with me. Potter will be just right for her. Potter isn't incurably evil. I am. I wanted her to be happy no matter what it took. Is that so bad? I would do anything for her. I tried to be funny, and light and happy. I gave her my last diary, you know. She read all of the things I went through over her. I'm going to copy what I've written up to this stage, and leave it on her pillow for her. Then she'll see what she's done to me. Maybe she'll love me if she knows that she's the only reason my heart keeps beating. Maybe…

-----

I don't go to lessons any more. 

I don't let anyone into my room. 

I don't eat.

I don't sleep.

I don't really live any more.

I don't love. 

All I do is write. I dream, yes. That's only because I can't see. The hunger is clouding my vision, but I know that if I ate, I would just be sick.

I don't feel.

I have seen no one for seven days now. They force food under my door. I don't take it. I don't want it. She hasn't come. I never slept in case she came and called for me and I missed it. I'm staying alive on spells just to wait for her. 

Will she come? 

I don't know. In truth, I don't know if I would even recognise her. I'm not sure if I really want to see her. She would be sad that I'm this way because of her, and I don't want her to be sad.

I don't want her to be sad.

-----

They broke down my door this morning. It smashed, and I heard it like a hollow roaring in the back of my head. I don't use the front bit any more. The front is where I'm lucid. The front is where I think of her. 

I'm lying in the hospital wing now. 

They're treating me for all sorts of things that they say I have. They have charms in packets, and little bottles. Endless reams of pills, but no glue. All I need is glue, and a knife. If I cut my heart out and stick it back together again, maybe it would stop hurting.

Anything's worth a try.

-----

She came today.

She told me that she'd been trying to get in for ages, and they wouldn't let her. I don't believe her, naturally, but why should I? Answer me that, if you can. She was crying, and she said she was sorry, but her tears mean only that her eyes are leaking to me. She hugged me, and I remembered, then I pushed her away. She was still crying, but totally silent. She stood there, her mouth open, tears flooding down those soft planes of her face that I used to love so much. 

I was glad she came. It made me see what she's done. She controlled me. For so long, I stayed under her spell. No more.

She wouldn't leave. They couldn't make her. I didn't care either way, and that made me proud. Father will be pleased. 

She held my hand all night. A welter of memories rushed around my head, crashing into each other, and I loved her. I wanted to throw my arms around her, and kiss her, and say that it was all okay. Say I'd been ill, and it wasn't her. Say that I'd never leave her, and I loved her so much I couldn't eat or sleep.

But I didn't. 

I'm not certain what stopped me. It might be that I'm still too week to move my arms that far, or it might be that it isn't true.

But it is. Every word. 

Why don't I understand. I cry out for her inside, but she doesn't want me. She's holding my hand, and she's warm, and soft, she smells like roses. But I'm numb. I don't smell the roses, or feel the warmth of her hands. I imagine it, because her hands are freezing, she smells like salty water, and her skin is wet with tears. 

I still love her.

I hate roses, and warmth, and softness. I hate myself, but I don't hate her, but I poured myself into her, and I hate her.

She's everything that I love and hate, and I can't address that. I wish I could tell her to go, but she's the only one who came. She's the only one who really cares about me after all.

-----

When I woke up she was lying beside me. Her cheek was on my chest, and her hair was laid out around her. She looked like some kind of angel, and I didn't feel good enough to look at her. Her skin was like porcelain, flecked with gold, and I cried.

A single tear fell from my eye onto her face. It looked like crystal, and I was caught up looking at it. It sparkled on her skin, then tumbled down to her lips, and ran between them.

I loved her again. In that instant, I couldn't hate her. Even after what I'd done for her, I couldn't bring myself to want her gone.

__

I love you.

I said it, and she woke up. She was looking at me with those big, bark coloured eyes.

__

You what?

She didn't believe me, but my mouth stopped working and I couldn't say it again. 

__

You love me? But I was so horrible to you! I didn't mean a word. Please, forgive me?

I was shaking like a leaf, and I couldn't talk. I tried to nod, to say something, but I couldn't move. 

__

Draco?

Her lip was caught between her teeth, and she started crying again.

__

Answer me!

I can't.

__

Love… you. Always.

She flung her arms around me, sobbing like… I don't know what. 

__

I thought you didn't like me any more, the way you just acted like I wasn't there…

Ginny…

I savoured the word in my mouth. For me it means beauty, peace, love. 

Happiness.

-----

I'm back in school now. All my robes are too big, cos I shrunk. Everyone gets really tiptoe-ish around me, like I'm made of glass. Not me. That's Ginny, glass-kid. I spend every moment I can with her now. Even Goofy Granger, Ratty Ronald and Piss-pot Potter are putting up with me now. Whenever Granger sees me she bites her lip and starts to cry. I knew I was annoying, but am I truly _that_ bad? Ratty Ronald has grudgingly accepted me as Kid-Sister's Boyfriend now, but if I try to kiss her in his presence he goes a really off colour. Along the lines of a seriously unpleasant bruise, or an eggplant gone squishy. Potty is the only one who truly can't bear me. That's no biggy. I can't bear him either.

Ginny is wonderful. She bought me this bar of chocolate the size of a slab of concrete, and chopped it into little bits for me. On realising that I was trembling to hard to eat, she fed it to me bit by bit, whilst sitting on my lap at the breakfast table. That girl is _dynamite_.

Father is disappointed that I still like her. He sent me this really shiny new hunting rifle, and hinted heavily that I might consider murdering her with it. I decided to call those blokes with the white coats, and that fun room that has the bouncy walls. He's got a booking for a session with the centre for the criminally insane. 

Mother went 'Yars, dwaaarling. Aawwwfully nice, deyaaar. Now, hop alawng. Mommy's busy.' So I guess that's no change there, either.

Ginny expressed a curious desire to show me to her parents. All that night I had nightmares of a towering pyramid of red hair with lots of little boards sticking out displaying marks out of ten. Most of them were below five, except for one, and the owner of the board was making eyes at me. I think it was granny Weasley. Ugh. (I know you missed it. I certainly did. All that time saying sweet stuff without my precious 'Ugh'. Don't worry. I'm back now, and I plan to keep it that way)

~

If this wasn't how you wanted my life to go, then go and read someone else's diary. Scribble out the name on the cover, and replace it with mine. I don't care what you think about me. If you say I'm supposed to be mean, and hate Ginny, may I just ask, HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW?!! You may think you know all about me cos you've read the bedtime stories of Potty and Pals. You're wrong. I'm not like that. If you're reading things from my point of view, maybe you should stop thinking like Potty. It doesn't help matters if you start out thinking 'OOOOOH! Malfoy, now he's a nasty piece of work, innee? Let's read his diary and laugh at him.' I'm sorry. Open-minded members only, thanks. It takes the wind out of a guy's sails a little when you're telling him he doesn't know himself. How do you presume to know me better than I do? I've known me for sixteen years now. I think that beats you, any road.

If you opened my diary with a gleeful grin, but started to understand that Potter's deluded, then waahay for you. I'm afraid you'll have to imagine the balloons and confetti spraying out, and all those people in dumb hats with squeaky party toys. I'm on a tight budget this year.

__

If you opened it thinking like the nasty little hobgoblins in the paragraph before last, then I'm afraid you'll just have to hop on the late bus home. You're not welcome here. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a little bit of chocolatey business to attend to…

~~*~~

__

Thank you for reading again. Sorry about Draco being so rude at the end, but I think he could be right. I appreciate any comments you have to give, and I don't mind constructive criticism, but no flaming. Flaming is the work of small minds who couldn't do better themselves. If anybody wants to flame, feel free to give me a link to YOUR story, then I'll come along and flame that. If anyone has an urge to flame, but has no legitimate proof that it's not one of their own faults, then don't review. Leave town with your tails between your legs.

Thanks to all the reviewers of I Am A Slug. I would list you all, but there are two pages of you, and it would take ages to copy you all down! I promise that if I make a third, all of you will go up there! Of course, I will have to get enough requests for a third…

~Morgi~


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